Hands
soft pink flesh like pliable woodworkcarved, detailed, corrupted by living
scars from encounters
nails bitten from stress
they say you can tell everything about someone this way
callouses earned from hours
pressing fingertips against hard metalthe capable grasp of oneuntil they want to bleed
not afraid to make a fistslightly unkempt, nails shiny showingand grab ahold of desires
signs of vanitycuticles like half circles, delicately framing a window
knuckles covered by skin
so close to the bonethe veins staining the apricot and turning it blueso close to the bone
so close to the blood
and red
white when clenched with fury
marks left by nails
life-scarred, dimpled, capable flesh, insecure
forming sculptures from gnarled fingers
metacarpal artwork, wrinkled and pulled tight
at once it becomes ugly, then beautiful, then real.
